


And Your Enemies Closer

by 94BottlesOfSnapple



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [3]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Attempted Murder, Ballroom Dancing, Captivity, Dark Matt Murdock, M/M, Threats of Violence, Vampire Bites, Vampire Hunter Foggy Nelson, Vampire Hunters, Vampire Matt Murdock, Vampire Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:42:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/94BottlesOfSnapple/pseuds/94BottlesOfSnapple
Summary: Foggy knew he was making a mistake when he tried to assassinate Matt Murdock.It just wasn't a mistake he expected to live through.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2148057
Comments: 15
Kudos: 68
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo, MattFoggy Server Telephone Game Event





	And Your Enemies Closer

**Author's Note:**

> For the Bad Things Happen Bingo square "Captivity" and the Febuwhump Day 3 prompt "Imprisonment"
> 
> Also a Round 1 entry for the MattFoggy Server’s Telephone Game Event

Foggy expected to wake up in a cell, if he woke up at all. A damp dungeon, maybe a cot against the wall, cobblestone floors and rats. The stories of his childhood magnified into gruesome fairytales. For his part, Foggy had never lost a fight until this point. He had four hundred years of his family’s history behind him, tradition and experience and training. Sure, there had been a few close calls here and there — but what hunter hadn’t had a close call or two? If vampires were easy to fight, anyone would do it. There was a reason the Nelsons were famous.

A clan leader was not just any vampire, though, and Foggy had known going into things that he was in over his head. It just hadn’t mattered. So he fought, and he lost, and he had been very sure he was going to die.

But then he woke up. And not in a dungeon.

The first thing he noticed about his surroundings was that he was laid out on a bed. A large bed with soft sheets.

“Well, that’s... weird.”

Uneasy, Foggy went for the stakes at his belt first — a comfort instinct — and found them missing. The heavy clank of metal puzzled his tired brain for a moment until he managed to squint through bleary, still-tired eyes and locate the shackles on his wrists. They had a loose lead that trailed up to the ceiling and was lost among the shadows of the eaves. They’d been clapped over his sleeves, at least, so the metal didn’t bite into his wrists.

Foggy slid out of the bed to test the length of the chain — long enough to pace most of the elegant, wood-paneled room and comfortably enter an adjoining bathroom, but not to reach the exit. Outside the bed, the room was chilly, especially with no boots to protect his feet from the stone floor. Foggy shivered.

And that was when he realized that his hunter vest — reinforced leather with a high collar to protect his throat — was also gone. As were his lighter, his vial of myrrh, his boots, his vambraces, and the last-ditch knife he kept strapped to his shin.

Panicked, Foggy’s hands flew to his throat for the two-step check — one, a pulse. There it was, galloping like a racehorse. And two, no bite marks. His skin was mercifully smooth, and Foggy let out a huge sigh of relief.

He was alive. He’d been captured, but not turned or bitten. And he was locked in a bedroom, not the dungeon. Everything had gone horribly wrong, but there were some bright spots, albeit baffling ones.

Eventually, the cold chased Foggy back to the safe haven of the bed. With nothing much else to do, he bundled the comforter around himself, studied the room, and thought. Every so often, his hand came up to fiddle with the collar of his shirt — thin cotton, hardly a barrier. That bugged him the most. Everything else — the stakes, the myrrh, the lighter... Fine, sure, it made sense to confiscate those. But the vest? The lack of protection caused by its absence was acute. Purposeful. All it could be was a statement that Foggy was unworthy of any form of defense, and none would be afforded to him.

It made sense, he supposed, given the nature of his crime. But it felt cruel. As cold as the room he’d found himself imprisoned in. It didn’t make him look forward to whatever his captor had in store.

As if the thought had summoned him, the door to the room creaked open, revealing the man— no, the vampire, that had been Foggy’s target: Matthew Murdock, head of Clan O’Casey.

He stepped into the room, right up to the bed, and stopped there, silent. It was like being watched, studied — though everyone knew Murdock was blind, so there was no sight involved in that scrutiny. Foggy studied him back.

He was beautiful.

All vampires were, though not always in the pedestrian human modes of conventional attractiveness. It was in the way they held themselves. The elegance of their bearing, the inhuman smoothness of their movements. The aura of power they swept around themselves like a cloak.

Murdock had the power and the inhumanity — he was a clan leader, hundreds of years old and fierce — but he also had the attractiveness. Rounded, inviting lips hiding deadly fangs. A strong, masculine nose, brow, and jaw. The musculature of Greek statuary. His dark hair was short, and his eyes were hidden behind a pair of smoky, red-tinted glasses.

Foggy had never looked at him closely until now. Unlike some of the other clan leaders, Murdock kept to his own kind, and Foggy hadn’t exactly had time to stare when he was fighting for his life.

“Finally awake,” Murdock said at last, and his voice was low and musical — nothing like the rough snarl from their fight. “I suppose it isn’t true what they say about no rest unto the wicked.”

“Well, I’m sure that had more to do with the bed than anything. I kind of expected a cell,” Foggy admitted warily. “Not... This.”

Murdock trailed a finger along the footboard of the bed, a distant smile on his face.

“I could arrange some less comfortable accommodations, if that’s truly what you’d prefer.”

“No! Uh. No, thank you.”

Then, feeling uncomfortable sitting curled on the bed like a kid, Foggy slid his feet to the floor again and stood before— well, his enemy. It felt strange to think of him that way. Aside from his current condition, he had nothing against Murdock, personally. This was just... How things had turned out.

“I should be thanking you, really. Your actions present me with a unique opportunity.”

“How— how so?” asked Foggy, numbly, wondering if he was about to hear plans for a full-scale war against the four Hunter Families.

“Despite my... position, our laws often prevent me from doing everything I’m inclined to do,” Murdock said, low and ominous, his icy hand stroking Foggy’s throat. “Even I’m beholden to tradition. But you’re a hunter, and a hunter that tried to kill me. So I can take certain liberties I might not otherwise be allowed.”

A personal opportunity, then. His right to the blood of his attempted killer. A shiver wracked Foggy’s spine, despite his best efforts, and the hunger on the vampire’s face sharpened.

The worst part was that everything that Murdock was saying was true — this wasn’t business as usual. Attempting to dust a clan leader was considered an assassination. No one else in the family would have accepted this job, because it left everyone, not just the assassin, so monumentally vulnerable; even had Foggy succeeded, there would have been consequences. Ones that would have shaken the entire supernatural world. A treaty broken.

“You’re the Nelson heir, aren’t you?” Murdock asked.

Foggy didn’t answer. Didn’t dare, not when claiming his name would put his family in harm’s way. But that didn’t seem to bother his captor. Actually, it looked like it amused him.

“The myrrh was a dead giveaway. Don’t worry— I won’t exact revenge on your family for your foolishness. Having a hunter as renowned as you at my mercy is enough of a boon.”

The Nelsons would be safe, then, if Murdock was telling the truth. If Foggy could believe Candace and Theo and Ma and Pop were safe from retribution... Then at least one part of this nightmare hadn’t gone wrong.

But none of that would save Rosalind.

“Mercy?” Foggy bit back, though his attempt at a sharp laugh splintered apart.

“I think you’ll find I’ve been _exceptionally_ merciful,” Murdock said, pressing Foggy back against the dark wood paneling of the wall, one hand on his shoulder and the other still at his neck. “Someone far less kind would have already had their fangs in your throat.”

Foggy squeezed his eyes shut, braced for the bite — but it never came.

“So you are afraid,” taunted Murdock. “Then why come after me at all? Money? Fame? Chasing glory?”

He was Murdock’s prisoner. His— trophy, in some twisted sense. Foggy wouldn’t dare put Rosalind further into harm’s way by mentioning her name. They weren’t close, but she was still his mother. And he had risked so much to try and rescue her — taken this job, put everything he had into a fight against one of the most powerful vampires in the world. Throwing that all away now would be pointless.

“Yes,” he lied, opening his eyes to stare into Murdock’s terribly beautiful face. “Just— chasing glory.”

The smirk on the vampire’s face faded instantly. The hand he had on Foggy’s shoulder slid down, until it was pressed over his heart.

“You’re _lying_ to me.”

Fuck.

“N-no, I—”

“ _Yes_ ,” Murdock growled, digging his fingers into the thin fabric of Foggy’s shirt. “You _are_. And I can’t imagine what you have to gain from it unless— unless you have an accomplice.”

Double fuck.

The hand pressed painfully over Foggy’s racing heart stayed, but the one on his shoulder lifted away. Slowly, Murdock slid his glasses off his face, to reveal a pair of cloudy eyes surrounded by chemical burn scars.

“I’ve been alive for four hundred years,” he said darkly, “and the head of this clan since before the Treaty of Nine was a thought in your ancestors’ heads. I have done things that would chill you to your marrow. And I’ll do them again, if I have to, to protect my clan. Tell me. Who. You’re working with.”

An unnatural terror shot through Foggy’s veins until he turned his face away, squeezing his eyes closed.

“No,” he bit out. “No. No.”

Even if it meant being killed. He’d already expected that to happen, so it wasn’t such a loss. Murdock could do what he liked. Foggy was the kind of person who protected his family too.

So he waited, eyes closed, pulse pounding, for whatever Murdock decided to do next. But nothing happened.

And then, suddenly, the hand on him was gone.

The lock clicked with a heavy, iron sound, and Foggy was alone.

* * *

It went on like that for three miserable days. Murdock would appear twice — once in the morning and once in the evening, Foggy suspected, though he had no way to gauge the time without windows — bringing food and drink. And then he would demand the name of Foggy’s accomplice, the details of their plan. Foggy would say nothing. If Murdock learned about Fisk he’d go right at him, and Rosalind was sure to be caught in the crossfire. What was one human life to feuding vampires? Nothing. Less than nothing. If Fisk didn’t kill Rosalind to retaliate against Foggy for ratting him out, Murdock would do it because he’d held out so long. There was nothing to do but stay silent and hope a solution presented itself eventually.

On the fourth day, things changed.

“There will be a ball tonight,” Murdock noted idly, setting the usual tray down on the nightstand.

“A, a ball?”

What that had to do with him, Foggy had no idea. He’d be locked up where he’d been this entire time for the duration, presumably. Unless this was an oblique way for Murdock to tell him there might not be a morning meal coming tomorrow.

“It’s been over a hundred years since anyone has dared attack me with intent to kill — and even longer since it was someone so prominent. It’s something that needs to be announced to the clan.”

Fair enough, of course. But even if he wasn’t very familiar with Clan O’Casey, he did know others. This was the kind of announcement that could be made in a quiet council meeting. Turning the event into a party was extremely petty — but Murdock was a clan leader and he’d survived an assassination attempt, so it was well within his rights to do it. His power would be bolstered by his success, and the best way to show off that power was a celebration.

But Foggy had a sinking feeling that he himself would be the spectacle at this ball, and that? That was going to, well, suck.

“You’ll attend, of course,” Murdock commented, cementing that bad feeling.

That was all he would say for the morning, and it left Foggy uneasy and without much appetite. He spent what to him was midday pacing his prison and wondering what was in store. It wouldn’t normally fit with the cleanliness and sterility of vampire aesthetics to drag a filthy, disheveled human to a party, but Foggy supposed he couldn’t put it past Murdock to do it as a method of humiliation.

He needn’t have worried on that front. In the evening, Murdock appeared – dressed to the nines in a silk shirt and an embroidered coat – with a bundle of clothing in one arm and the usual food tray in the other.

“The ball begins in an hour. You’ll attend in this,” ordered Murdock, placing the clothes in Foggy’s arms and setting the tray on the bedside table.

At the top of the pile was a deep maroon shirt — something old-fashioned, with a v of laces down the front, and a collar that lay flat. The fabric was impossibly soft. It would be comfortable, but.

A low-cut shirt with an open collar, in a ballroom full of vampires? It would be like being naked.

“I can’t wear this,” Foggy protested.

“You’ll be perfectly safe,” promised Murdock, a scarlet smile playing at his lips. “So long as you don’t leave my side.” He paused. “I _could_ let you sit the ball out. But...”

“You want the name of my accomplice,” Foggy finished. “The answer’s still no.”

The vampire’s expression darkened. 

“Then I suppose it’s time for you to get bathed and dressed.”

* * *

On the list of things Foggy was grateful for that he probably shouldn’t have had to be, the first was that Murdock didn’t insist on following him into the bathroom to ‘supervise’ his bathing. He just waited for Foggy to finish eating, then unlocked his shackles and gestured towards the bathroom door, blocking the path to the bedroom’s main exit.

And Foggy was, well, totally without anything that might be useful as a weapon. But mainly, the second the idea occurred to him to possibly run, Murdock seemed to sense it. He wrapped a cold, unyielding hand around the back of Foggy’s neck and steered him into the bathroom, then closed the door between them.

There wasn’t anything in the bathroom that would make a useful weapon, so Foggy gave in to the opportunity he’d been given to finally get out of his clothes – which were becoming a bit ripe, to be honest – and scrub himself off. He washed, dried off, and then… Reluctantly, dressed in the clothes he’d been provided.

They were sized comfortably, and looked nice, if a bit plain. The sleeves of the shirt were loose until the cuff at the wrists, and the pants were black and more close-fitted than anything Foggy would have picked for himself. There was no mirror, so he had no way to determine how he looked, but that was probably the stupidest thing to be worried about, given the circumstances.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, Murdock was waiting with a pair of boots – built for fashion, and not for fighting; thin, with equally thin treads. Foggy put them on. And then, he was finally, finally led from his prison into the castle beyond.

* * *

The ballroom was stunning. They entered it from a door on the upper level, and Foggy could see the entire party spread out below. Gleaming polished marble floors, a dual staircase that led down to the main ballroom. In a human ball there would have been tables of refreshments, but here there was just seating – padded benches, lounges, where willing humans waited to be fed on or hung off the arms of their vampires like high society debutantes.

It was consensual, above-board, all of it. These were grown adults making the choice to be here. But the scene still made Foggy uncomfortable to watch. He turned his eye towards the architecture instead, admired the artistry of the chandeliers and the arch of the ceiling. It could have been the ballroom of a fairy tale castle, some pleasant fantasy story where everything ended happily.

Murdock nudged him forward, and Foggy went.

There were no shackles on his wrists. No chains on his ankles. No bars on the doors or the windows. Nothing between him and the exit but two hundred well-dressed, ravenous vampires.

And therein lay the problem.

The atmosphere was so civilized, there were no obvious bonds. And so despite the foolishness of it, Foggy’s mind kept screaming at him to run, to get out. Berating him for being weak, for capitulating to the cold, proprietary hand pressed against the small of his back.

“I can hear your heart racing,” his escort murmured in his left ear.

Lips pressed against his neck just below that same ear, smooth and cool with the warning hint of a fang. Every eye in the room turned towards them, then, and the weight of so much concentrated, predatory focus was almost enough to buckle Foggy’s knees beneath him.

Numbly, he was guided along at Murdock’s side, down the stairs and through the ballroom, and the crowd parted for them. Finally, they stopped before a pair that most definitely looked out of place. A tiny, pale woman with dark hair, jeans, and a leather jacket stood next to a huge, handsome black man whose clothing was suitably fancy for the ball but accented with a sunflower yellow that stood out from the sea of maroon, navy, and forest green.

“Hello, Luke, hello, Jess,” Murdock greeted – almost warmly. “I’m glad you could make it; I know this is short notice.”

Jess tipped a glass of what had to be blood in Murdock’s direction, as though toasting him.

“Heard rumors you weren’t gonna be appearing alone and I had to see for myself, after a hundred years. Dressed like he really wants a bite, isn’t he?” she asked with a sharp grin, slugging the blood back like it was whiskey.

Foggy’s hand came up to his collar instinctively, but Murdock tugged it back down without a word.

“Mind your manners, Jess,” he ordered afterwards, though not very harshly. “He’s my guest for the evening.”

“Your _guest_ moves like a hunter,” Luke noted.

“Oh,” said Murdock, grinning. “I’m well aware of that.”

They said their goodbyes and Murdock escorted Foggy further along into the crowd, but Foggy still caught the last of Jess’s comments, muttered to Luke:

“Damn. He still has a type, huh.”

What that meant, Foggy wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

The next half an hour followed that same cycle – Murdock would greet someone, they would talk pleasantly, and a lewd or hungry comment would be thrown in Foggy’s direction, though never directly to him. As though he were an object, not a person capable of talking back.

But worst was a member of the clan that Murdock greeted as Dex. His eyes were sharp, and his expression and his words told Foggy that he knew more than the others. Much more.

“So this is the little assassin. You haven’t marked him yet,” Dex noted leadingly, his voice low enough that no one but Foggy and Murdock would hear. “The laws say we can do anything we want to treaty-breakers like this, you know. There’s a few things I’ve always wanted to try, so if you don’t want—”

“I never said that,” Murdock cut him off.

“Well.” Dex’s eyes flashed. “I don’t blame you, if you want to keep him for yourself. But if you don’t, keep me in mind, will you?”

With a predatory smile, Dex skated one of his index fingers across Foggy’s brow and tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. Murdock didn’t stop him from doing it. Even so, Foggy had no stakes to lash out with, and the devil he knew was better than the one he didn’t, at the moment. Foggy pressed closer against Murdock to put space between himself and Dex.

Finally, finally, they left Dex behind.

“What the _fuck_ was that about?” Foggy demanded as soon as they were relatively alone.

“You’re tempting,” Murdock pointed out, and there was definitely— pride, in his voice. “It makes sense they have a little trouble controlling themselves.”

“Whose fault is that?” hissed Foggy. “You’re the one who forced me into this getup.”

“Would you have preferred to attend in what you had on before?”

“I would have _preferred_ not to be dressed like the vampire equivalent of a hooker,” Foggy spat, made bold by his own fear-fueled adrenaline.

The comment only earned him a low, amused laugh that made his heart stutter on its next beat.

“If you’re going to say things like that, you may want to keep your voice down,” noted Murdock. “Some of your fellow humans might get offended.”

“What they think of me is the least of my concerns right now. Are you seriously going to parade me around to get creeped on by everyone in the ballroom?”

“We’ve greeted everyone that needed greeting,” Murdock relented. “If you’d rather we be alone, we can always dance.”

Foggy did not, in fact, want to dance. But it was better than risking another meeting with most of the vampires in the room, so he agreed. For a minute, it was actually almost peaceful – just movement and music. Foggy barely even had to think about where his feet were going; Murdock was shockingly good at the subtle cues needed for leading, and everyone kept well out of their way.

Of course, then that peaceful minute was up, and Foggy was once again being interrogated about his accomplice and the assassination plot.

“Have you changed your mind, about confessing?” asked Murdock as he spun them across the floor.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Every vampire in this room is a member of my clan, by pedigree or by choice,” Murdock noted conversationally. “My right to you can easily be passed to any of them I choose, if I decide you aren’t worth my time.”

Thinking of Dex, of the ugly desire in his eyes, Foggy blanched.

“You— you wouldn’t. Or you would have brought it up before now.”

“I wanted you to meet them first,” countered Murdock. “Get an impression of how your circumstances might change before asking one last time why you attacked me and who you’re working with.”

Foggy wanted to pull away – even jerked back instinctively, but Murdock’s hold on his hand and his hip were like steel. He continued to be whisked along to the elegant serenade of violins and flutes as the threat wound tighter and tighter around his lungs.

“It’s my mother,” Foggy blurted at last, and shame coursed through him at his own weakness. “I only— It was to try and save my birth mom. She’s not a hunter, not like the rest of the family, and she was taken as leverage to convince me to... To take a job to kill you.”

Murdock’s lips parted into a soft oval of confusion, and his dark brows furrowed — all the sharpness of him fell away. And yet his steps never faltered; they continued to whirl across the ballroom in perfect form, the guests a blur around them.

“You’re.” Murdock swallowed. “You’re telling the truth.”

Foggy cringed.

“Yes.”

A troubled frown passed over the vampire’s face, briefly, then was gone.

“Who blackmailed you?” he asked.

But Foggy didn’t answer. Still couldn’t. Murdock took a low, comforting tone with him instead of the harsh fire and brimstone of the past several days – their enemy was the same, after all, they could work together. Wouldn’t that be the best solution?

Foggy couldn’t risk it. Wouldn’t risk it. Especially with the mercurial way Murdock’s moods shifted. Maybe he could trust Foggy’s words as truth by listening to his heart, but Foggy couldn’t trust his.

“Very well,” Murdock conceded at last – clearly not pleased, but with less violence than at Foggy’s other refusals.

He drew them both to a slow stop, and Foggy had to blink to take in their surroundings.

Somehow, they’d made it up the stairs to the balcony overlooking the ballroom while still dancing. Below them, the music went silent and the entire ball paused, looking up at them. Foggy’s legs went weak and shaky at the full force of all that vampiric scrutiny falling on him once more.

“You may have heard rumors over the past several days that I was attacked,” said Murdock, loud enough for his voice to carry throughout the entire hall. “And though I’ve suffered no injury, these rumors are true. The human you see before you, one Franklin Nelson, broke the Treaty of Nine and attempted to assassinate me.”

The ball exploded into noise — shouting, snarling, calls for violence. Like a frothing tide of rage. Imagining that tide turned against his family, against all of humanity, had Foggy’s ears ringing.

“However!” Murdock held up a hand, and the ballroom instantly fell silent once more. “He acted alone, without knowledge or permission from the Nelson family. And so, for the sake of peace between our people, I accept him — body and soul and blood — as my payment. And I ask all of you here to witness my claim, so we can put this unfortunate incident behind us.”

Then he turned away from the crowd, back towards Foggy.

“You’re— you’re going to bite me?” Foggy asked, so quiet he could barely hear himself.

It had been a threat hanging over him the entire time, but the declaration still caught Foggy by surprise. After all, Murdock had had plenty of opportunities already, and had taken none of them. 

“It’s what the clan expects, yes.”

Foggy swallowed.

“Do I have a choice?”

“No,” Murdock admitted, with only a paltry amount of regret in his voice. “Not unless you’d prefer to be considered, ah, _for public consumption_. But I’ll make it feel good for you.” He stroked Foggy’s cheek with his knuckles. “I promise.”

The softness of his movements was ill-fitting, like he hadn’t had reason to use it in a while. He probably hadn’t, Foggy supposed. Vampires were hardly delicate with one another, and everyone knew — in whispers, in rumors — that Murdock had sworn off human lovers.

One cold hand curved against Foggy’s jaw, tilted his head slowly to the side to bare his neck. Foggy’s heart thundered faster and faster in his chest, and there was a sudden, shaky inhale.

“Jesus,” Murdock muttered. “That pulse... Like it’s calling for me.”

And then his mouth was at Foggy’s throat. A single kiss, and the sharp pinch of a bite. It burned, enough to make Foggy gasp — and then his breath caught again, for an entirely different reason. Pleasure flooded through his body, rich and sudden, until the pain of the bite was completely eclipsed and the whole ballroom went fuzzy at the edges. It buzzed through him, head to toe, and nothing mattered — not the crowd, not his blood, not his dignity — except making sure that feeling continued. His hand shot up into Murdock’s dark hair, pressed the vampire closer against his neck. Murdock responded with a pleased rumble, looping an arm around Foggy’s back to pull them flush against each other.

A minute later, or an eternity, Murdock pulled away. His hair was a mess, his pale face looked almost flushed, and his lips were streaked with blood. Foggy thought maybe he’d wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, something rough and feral, but instead Murdock licked his lips clean.

“There. Not so bad, was it?” he asked Foggy, brushing a thumb over the bite mark he’d left behind.

That one touch sent another wave of pleasure flashing through Foggy’s nerves. He’d blame that later for the coyness of what came out of his mouth next.

“I’ve, I’ve had worse.”

Murdock’s fanged smirk went dangerously knowing.

* * *

The rest of the ball was a blur. All Foggy could recall was, in the wake of Murdock’s claim, the comments from the rest of the clan ceased. He found himself touching the bite mark every few minutes, absently, as though his body was still surprised it was there. He and Murdock danced again, at least once more, before retreating from the ball when Foggy began to yawn. It was— pleasant, actually, despite everything.

Head still spinning, Foggy wasn’t actually sure where they were going until they’d already stepped back into the small bedroom that had been his cell for four days. And by the time he realized Murdock’s intentions, one of his wrists was already bound in metal again.

“Wait, stop! What are you doing?”

A dark brow quirked above Murdock’s glasses.

“I would think that was obvious.”

“Wh— But, I’m being blackmailed! You know I was telling the truth!” protested Foggy, struggling in vain as he was locked back into the shackles.

“I sympathize,” Murdock said, like he meant it. “I do. But that doesn’t mean I can trust you. My duty is first and foremost to my clan, and since you refuse to disclose the name of the person plotting against me, you’re still an enemy yourself.”

It was logical reasoning, but something in Foggy hated that. It wasn’t that he’d wanted to hurt anyone, it wasn’t that they were really enemies at all. It was Fisk who hated Murdock and wanted him dead, not Foggy. And after having spent several hours free of chains, he was loath to return to them for god knew how long.

“There has to be something I can do to convince you to let me out.”

“There is one way,” Murdock said, and the look that came over his face was a mixture of challenge and mockery and desire. “You would stay with me, in my chambers. But agreeing to that means agreeing to another bite.”

He trailed the pad of his thumb over the bite mark again, sending a shock of pleasure up Foggy’s spine.

“No,” Foggy snapped, jerking away from him, twenty years of training making the answer instinct. “Never.”

Any amusement in Murdock’s expression dropped away.

“Then you’ll stay here. In chains.”

With that, he left – the bang of the door and the click of the lock echoed behind him.


End file.
